


Novae

by jesuisfarouche



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Gen, M/M, Needles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-02-03 09:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1739279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesuisfarouche/pseuds/jesuisfarouche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>your ship is on fire and hurtling towards the nearest center of gravity and you’re mentally and physically connected to it as it does so – you are the ship and the ship is you, you are one being, metal and flesh, blood and circuits</i>
</p><p>Enjolras knew Grantaire would come back. He had to have known that he wouldn't ground himself forever. He would be too easily seduced by the infinite black, the thrill of exploring places he never knew existed, flying faster than he could imagine through the stars, never needing to set foot on dirt or grass or earth as long as he pleased. Enjolras is smart. Of course he knew that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alnilam

The last time Grantaire plugged himself in, everything had gone to hell.

His body couldn’t handle the stress – lines upon lines of code running endlessly through his brain, looping around his fingertips and back up and down again, never-ending – the dying ship going down and taking Grantaire and all the rest on board with it.

He’d gotten the emergency power back on and managed to keep them afloat (he can still feel the heat behind his eyes and the strain, see himself in the mirror afterwards, his eyeballs bright red and bloodshot). Once the warning claxons had slowed Jehan grabbed the plug at the base of his neck and pulled the long needle from his spine. He caught him as he fell backwards, eased him onto the ground and started cardiopulmonary resuscitation once he realized the man wasn’t breathing.

Grantaire was dead for nearly a minute. He coughed, gasped in a breath, tears in the corners of his eyes as he grasped at Jehan’s sleeves. With a quiet fury Jehan wiped the blood from Grantaire's nostrils and ears.

“We’re done.” There was an eerie calm in the cockpit at Jehan’s words aside from the warnings still blaring. Enjolras didn’t say a word. He couldn’t even look at Grantaire, breathing deeply on the floor grates, covered in sweat.

And just like that, they were done. No more plug-ins, no more experiments. Just drop us off at the nearest habitable rock and we’ll make our way from there, thank you very much.

Enjolras didn’t say goodbye to Grantaire. What could he say? “Sorry I used our sexual relationship to get you to repeatedly put your life in danger to further my own cause. Hope grounded life treats you well. Thanks for the sex.” No.

_“Does it hurt? Plugging in?”_

_“Excruciatingly so.”_

_“Every time?”_

_“Every time.”_

Instead he just watched the two of them disembark with their meager possessions until they disappeared into the crowd of people swarming around the port.

Combeferre had put a hand on his shoulder, motioned back into the ship with a jerk of his head, and they were off within minutes.

That all happened a long time ago.

 

 

Grantaire is still awake. Somewhere buried under books and scraps of components the clock shines out an ungodly hour of the morning, though all that can be seen is a faint green glow silhouetting the odds and ends on the shelf.

The flat is tiny. One double mattress in a corner (on which Jehan snores softly on his side, clutching a blanket up to his chin), the giant bookshelf that takes up nearly a whole wall, a couple cabinets and the desk. On the desk sit several monitors connected to computers. Cords and wires run back and forth, maddeningly intricate.

Luckily, though, they have a window. One large window, missing several panes of glass, but giving a fairly spectacular view of the city. Their flat is on such a high floor they’re not even staring at another building’s wall, it’s that good.

Grantaire sits, feet up on the chair and his knees pressed tightly to his chest, his face illuminated by the glow of one of the monitors. He scratches his chin, types in a few lines of code, then sits back and scrubs his hands across his face.

Grounded life fucking sucks when you long to live among the stars.

He stands, stretches his muscles and _loves_ how it feels, and quietly steps over Jehan asleep on the mattress and to the window. Unlatched, one can sit on the sill and dangle their feet and marvel over the hundreds of meters of vertical air between oneself and the pavement below. He does just this.

A cigarette is lit. The smoke sits in his lungs, heavy. He lets it out through his nose and closes his eyes. The city is loud, louder than space ever could be, even when your ship is on fire and hurtling towards the nearest center of gravity and you’re mentally and physically connected to it as it does so – you are the ship and the ship is you, you are one being, metal and flesh, blood and circuits – and it’s something he hasn’t quite gotten used to in the couple of years he and Jehan have lived here.

Suddenly, a noise. Small, the shuffle of a foot on the concrete floor of the flat, and Jehan is undoubtedly still asleep on the mattress underneath the windowsill.

Grantaire turns, fast, his hand in his pocket and a knife out in a breath. In the dark it takes him a moment to see who the intruder is, but after a few moments everything becomes clear, and in the dim glow of the computer monitor and the lights of the city behind him, Grantaire’s stomach drops when he recognizes him.

He realizes at this moment that his and Jehan's quiet life on this tiny moon, anonymous in the throngs of people populating the city, is quite over. It takes everything in his power not to smile.

“Fucking hell, Courfeyrac.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had promised myself to write a sad space AU months ago after I wrote Black, so...here it is. Short teaser, more to come quite soon. I just needed to get this out there. 
> 
> I don't know where it came from honestly I was about to fall asleep and all of a sudden I was like, WHAT IF SPACE AND ANGST AND GRANTAIRE CAN PLUG HIMSELF INTO SHIPS AND ENJOLRAS IS AN ASSHOLE ABOUT A LOT OF THINGS?
> 
> So. Here we go!


	2. Betria

He looks the same, mostly. Bit older. His hair is longer. He’s thinner.

“Hello, Grantaire.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Jehan, still asleep on the mattress, stirs. Grantaire glances back to him, then grabs a sweater from the back of the desk chair. “In the hall,” he orders, and Courfeyrac follows him out.

“Sorry, I know it’s late, I didn’t have time to wait until morning—“

“How the fuck did you find us?”

Courfeyrac smiles, a sad sort of thing but a light in his eyes nonetheless. “I missed you too.”

Grantaire digs around his pockets for his pack of cigarettes. “Whatever it is you people want, it can’t be so important that he couldn’t come himself.” He finds what he was seeking, and huffs out a laugh when Courfeyrac holds out his hand to bum one off of him. He allows it.

“You know he can’t do that.” Grantaire lights his cigarette, then offers the flame to Courfeyrac. “I’ve been traveling for days to get here, I haven’t slept, you know, the least you can do is be a little more welcoming.”

A tiny pang of guilt hits Grantaire. “I gave you a cigarette, didn’t I?”

Courfeyrac’s laugh is a welcome sound, and Grantaire can’t help but smile. He did miss him. “Believe it or not I actually volunteered to fetch you both.”

“Fetch us.”

“We both know you’ll come, Grantaire. You weren’t made to be grounded, stuck in this tiny flat in this awful city on this shitty moon. It doesn’t become you.”

He’s right, but Grantaire doesn’t want to admit it out loud. “And Jehan? You think he’ll just pack up and leave?”

The door to the flat opens and sleepy-eyed Jean Prouvaire glares out at the two of them. “Jehan will do whatever the fuck Jehan pleases,” he grumbles. “Hello, Courfeyrac. Come inside. Someone make me some coffee.”

 

 

“I can’t tell you that.”

Courfeyrac repeats the sentence what seems like fifteen times as the answer to every single one of Grantaire and Jehan’s questions. It’s infuriating. Grantaire lights another cigarette.

“You’re telling me y’all landed an entire system away and you took public transportation shuttles here using falsified documents with fake names under penalty of indefinite incarceration so that you could wake us up in the middle of the night to tell us to come back to your ship and participate in one of Enjolras’ damn foolish plans that you can’t actually tell us anything about?”

“Yes. And _you_ were already awake.”

Jehan, wrapped in the blanket and curled up on the desk chair, sips his coffee. “You could have just sent a message,” he says. “We know your cryptography, you know where we are. Why did you come in person?”

Courfeyrac hesitates a beat, as if he doesn’t quite know how to answer. “I needed to see you were both okay,” he says, then glances to Grantaire. “Last time I saw you nobody was sure you’d live very long. I suppose I needed to see there was no lasting damage.”

There are small scars at the base of Grantaire’s neck, round points of tissue where the large needle would pierce through his skin. He absently places a hand on the back of his neck and runs his fingers over the raised scar tissue. “No,” he says. “No lasting damage.”

Jehan places his coffee on the desk. “I’ll come,” he says, and knowing Grantaire is about to protest, “I trust you, Courfeyrac, and I trust Enjolras. He wouldn’t send you if it wasn’t important.”

Both men look at Grantaire, who sighs deeply and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Hell if I’m gonna stay on this fucking moon alone.”

Jehan smiles.

 

 

The ship is small, her furnishings outdated, her engines loud. Metal creaks and groans while she’s in flight, giving the impression that at any moment she could blow apart to pieces. She’s sturdy, though, and she’ll fly true.

Enjolras’ eyes fall closed as he sits on the operating table in the med bay, which is more of a tiny room where Combeferre keeps the medical supplies than anything else. He listens to the song the ship sings as they slowly, lazily orbit whatever planet Feuilly parked them near.

Courfeyrac has been gone nearly a week. They had agreed on comm silence unless absolutely necessary, but Enjolras was beginning to worry. He had been reluctant to let him go in the first place, selfishly wanting to keep him safe. But as Combeferre had reminded him later, Courfeyrac did as he pleased, and even if Enjolras had forbade him to go, he would have gone anyway.

Combeferre fishes through a cabinet, pushing aside little boxes and vials in search of what he’s hunting for. “He’s fine, Enjolras,” he says, not looking back at him.

Enjolras opens his eyes. Combeferre always has an uncanny knack for knowing exactly what’s bothering him. The two men are of one mind most of the time, and Enjolras is reminded every day how thankful he is for his friend.

“Of course,” he replies, worrying his hands together in his lap.

Combeferre finds what he seeks, a small vial half-full of clear fluid. He picks up a syringe and places the needle through the membrane on top of the vial, and collects the serum slowly.

“I know he’s perfectly capable,” Enjolras continues on as Combeferre places the syringe and gathers some instruments on a tray. “But there’s so many factors out of my control. _Our_ control.”

“Your greatest strength is your love for your friends,” Combeferre says, bringing the tray closer to the operating table and standing in front of Enjolras. He warms the chestpiece of a stethoscope between his palms as Enjolras removes his shirt. “But it can often be a distraction.” He smiles softly as he places the stethoscope onto Enjolras’ chest. “Which I’m sure you already know.”

Enjolras hums softly, then takes a deep breath. He’s used to this routine by now. Listen to his lungs, shine a light in his eyes, feel his neck and his abdomen. Ask about his sleeping, his eating, his pain levels. Any fainting spells? Any seizures? Vomiting, diarrhea, night sweats, hot flashes, migraines? Is he still coughing up blood?

The answers are always the same, and Combeferre always gets that sad, worried, defeated look in his eyes that his condition doesn’t seem to be improving.

Enjolras is dying.

He’s known it for some months now, as has Combeferre and Courfeyrac. The rest of the crew, their friends, have been kept in the dark. He knows they suspect something is amiss, but he doesn’t want to tell them anything until it’s absolutely necessary to do so.

There are already plans in place should he suddenly take a turn for the worse, and as his First, Courfeyrac would take over as captain anyway. Enjolras just prefers they all be thoroughly prepared once the inevitable happens.

Combeferre finishes the exam. He begins to clean the crook of Enjolras’ arm with a bit of cotton soaked in alcohol. “I’m increasing your dosage,” he says, and Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Your pain seems to getting worse.”

He couldn’t argue with him, because Combeferre was right. Splitting, throbbing headaches would often take him out for hours. He would curl up on his bunk, the pain so intense he would scream into his pillow, hoping the noise of the ship would drown him out.

The doctor picks up the syringe. “There’s still time to see a specialist, Enjolras.”

“No. I’ll be arrested. I’m not spending the rest of my life in a detention facility.”

Combeferre sighs and holds the other man’s arm with one gloved hand as the other pushes the needle into his skin. The serum is cold, Enjolras feels it spread though his veins like ice, and he shivers.

Things seem to fall apart almost immediately. The edges of his vision blur, everything softens and seems to glow, and the only thing he can feel is Combeferre’s hands on his chest and back, guiding him gently down onto the operating table. There’s a pillow already there, and as soon as his head hits it he closes his eyes.

He feels a hand gently grasping his, and he smiles – or at least he tries to – as drugged sleep takes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops it's gonna be even more sad than I originally intended.
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos so far, friends! Encouragement makes one write faster.


	3. Castor

Two little white pills in Grantaire’s palm, two little white pills on his tongue, two little white pills swallowed down. He doesn’t ask what they are.

He _hates_ intergalactic public transportation.

Jehan runs and hand through Grantaire’s hair and gently pulls his head down to rest on his shoulder. “Go to sleep, Grantaire.”

He does, and he dreams.

Most of these things have happened before. Some of them haven’t. He’s on his bunk on Enjolras’ ship, there are hands on his neck and his face in his hair, pulling, lips bitten red, blonde curls splayed out on the pillow. He wants to hold the man and keep him safe in his arms, and he wants to destroy him. He’ll let him do either.

He takes a bullet, and then another, he can’t move his legs, he wants to run but he can’t move, he tries to cry out but he can’t speak, his throat is cut and he bleeds into the grass.

He’s in Jehan’s quarters, sticky patches on his skin hooked up to wires hooked up to monitors hooked up to computers, and Jehan has a long, large, terrible needle attached to a heavy bunch of cords wrapped in electrical tape. “Are you sure?” Jehan asks and no, he’s not, but he says yes and Jehan warns him it will be so painful, and he bites his lip bloody as the needle pierces his skin and he feels it in his spine the _agony_ and

He is the computer. He is Grantaire but he is also the computer, his eyes dart back and forth seeing things Jehan could never see, would never understand, and even he doesn’t understand but he _does_ , he must, he has to. Jehan is speaking but he can’t hear him. Jehan is standing in front of him with his hands on his face screaming at him but he is the computer,

And suddenly he is Grantaire again, blood runs warm and wet down his back, and Jehan apologizes over and over and promises he’ll never ask him to do it again, he’s so sorry and he can’t believe how stupid he was, and it must have been hell and he can never forgive himself, and Grantaire tells him it was incredible, it was perfect, he understands now and they just need to make a few adjustments and he’ll be ready to plug into the ship, just as Enjolras had asked him to.

He’ll do anything Enjolras asks him to.

Enjolras bleeds, his heart pierced, blood, red and terrible, soaking into his clothes and onto Grantaire’s hands and in his hair and Enjolras dies.

Enjolras slaps him, his fingers connect with the side of Grantaire’s face, and he’d be angry if he wasn’t so turned on by the fury in the other man’s eyes.

Grantaire stares out of the window in his and Jehan’s new flat on that awful fucking moon, he grips the windowsill, the whites of his eyes still blood red. His knuckles white, Jehan puts a hand on one of his and buries his face in Grantaire’s arm and mutters his apologies.

Most of these things have happened before. Some of them haven’t.

The shuttle lurches suddenly, and Grantaire wakes up.

 

 

Slowly, so slowly, Enjolras awakens.

He blinks several times. The drugs Combeferre gives him are strong. It takes him a few minutes to remember where he is and he figures it out in pieces – on a metal table, in the med bay, on his ship, lazily orbiting a backwater planet, waiting for Courfeyrac to return.

Combeferre has left and he is alone. Slowly he raises up onto his elbows, then pushes himself up into a sitting position. His limbs feel weak and his head is cloudy, but he doesn’t feel any pain. Oh, he doesn’t feel any pain at all! Enjolras smiles, closes his eyes, and simply enjoys the lack of pain.

After several minutes he deems himself strong enough to stand, which is a bad idea, as he falls immediately once his feet hit the ground. This is the worst of his illness – the loss of his independence, the fear that he won’t be able to function on his own, the worry that one of his crew, his friends, will find out how incapable he is of even the simplest tasks.

He pulls himself up, stands there for a few moments, and takes some tentative steps towards the corridor.

He finds Combeferre on the bridge (which is a very fancy word for it, as it’s pretty cramped and this ship really only needs one man to pilot it – “cockpit” is a better term, but they use bridge just the same) talking with Feuilly in the pilot’s chair, studying a chart pulled up on the screen.

“Have a nice rest?” Combeferre asks him without turning around. Sometimes Enjolras really does think the man has eyes on the back of his head, or telekinetic powers, or some combination of both.

“Yes. Still a bit sleepy, but I feel…” He chooses his words carefully. “Refreshed.”

“Good.” Combeferre takes a couple steps over and sits in the copilot chair. “Impeccable timing, too.”

Before Enjolras has a chance to ask, Feuilly turns around, the biggest grin on his face that makes Enjolras want to smile as well. “We just got a signal from Courfeyrac. It’s coded, he’s landed at the port authority a couple worlds away from here, and he’s brought guests.”

Maybe it’s the lasting effect of the drugs but Enjolras feels like he can’t speak. He turns to Combeferre, who smirks and simply nods.  
Enjolras takes a deep breath. “Let’s pick them up, then. Set your course, Feuilly.”

 

 

The three men stand in front of what must be Enjolras’ ship. “We got it at a great price, too, a few months after you guys left. I assume you know what I mean by ‘great price’.”

“You stole it.” Grantaire has a headache, and he’s hungry, and he just wants to take a nap without the aid of mystery drugs and then eat an entire week’s worth of rations.

“Correct! You are so smart, Grantaire, I’ve missed you so much.”

A hatch into the cargo hold slowly opens into a ramp. There, in the opening of the hatch, his hand on some button or lever or some such, is Combeferre. He smiles widely, and once the ramp hits the ground he hastily makes his way down.

Courfeyrac’s arms are wide open and his valise dropped before Combeferre reaches the ground. The two men embrace, and then Combeferre turns his attention to Jehan, who hugs him and smiles. Grantaire prefers a more cordial approach, and reaches his hand out, which Combeferre grasps tightly with a smile. “Thank you for coming,” he says, a little more seriously than Grantaire would have expected.

And then, there he is. Enjolras, bold. He looks exactly the same as he did two years prior, standing on the top of the ramp into the cargo hold of the ship. Though, as he steps down, Grantaire notices he is much thinner, and there are dark circles under his eyes that weren’t there before, and his smile sits only on the surface.

Still, he is beautiful, and Grantaire hates him for it.

Enjolras and Courfeyrac embrace, and then he and Jehan, and then Enjolras turns to Grantaire, and Grantaire feels like there’s a ton of bricks sitting heavy on his chest and he can hardly breathe.

“It’s good to see you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire swallows, and extends his hand, which Enjolras grasps in his. “Likewise.”

The moment is over and Enjolras reaches for one of Jehan’s bags, but Combeferre takes it out of his hand and carries it up the ramp. The four of them make for the ship, but Grantaire hesitates.

_If you get on this ship you will die._

It’s a nagging feeling, a terrible tug in the opposite direction he feels deep in his center, but it’s without merit and it’s stupid. Grantaire traverses the ramp, and the ramp lifts behind him he turns around to watch the sliver of light from the port get smaller and smaller. The hatch closes, and the dim light of the cargo hold soothes his pounding head.

 

 

The crew quarters are tight, but comfortable enough. A pull-down bunk bolted to the wall, a footlocker, a mirror. Grantaire sets his bags down and surveys the tiny room.

“Bathroom’s at the end of the corridor,” Enjolras explains from the doorway. “We try to conserve water as best we can.”

“Of course.” How Grantaire got stuck alone with Enjolras so soon was beyond him. All of a sudden Combeferre and Courfeyrac had disappeared, citing urgent matters to attend to, and Jehan was already asleep on his bunk across the hall.

“We all quarter here, though sometimes Feuilly sleeps on the bridge.”

“And you just happened to have two extra bunks?”

Enjolras smirks. “What can I say? The ship was a lucky find.”

They hold eye contact for several moments. Grantaire doesn’t know if he wants to punch the man or kiss him.

Finally Enjolras speaks. “About last time--”

“Forget it.”

“Seriously, Grantaire, I didn’t--”

“ _Please_ , Enjolras. Forget it.”

There is silence again, uncomfortable and oppressive. Grantaire’s ears begin to ring. He takes a deep breath and stares at his feet. “I don’t blame you for what happened. I don’t blame anyone. It was my choice; anything I didn’t want to do I would have refused. So really, you can forget it.”

He looks up at Enjolras, who is staring at the wall behind him. “Enjolras?”

The man suddenly looks weak on his feet, and puts an arm out to grab the frame of the door. He mutters something, but Grantaire can’t hear him. He takes a step towards the man and Enjolras grabs his sleeve.

“Combeferre.”

It’s a command more than anything else. Enjolras slowly sinks down onto the floor. He lets go of Grantaire’s sleeve and Grantaire doesn’t even realize he’s calling out, yelling for Combeferre, until he sees him running down the corridor, followed closely by Courfeyrac.

The two of them put Enjolras on his side, and Courfeyrac takes off his jacket to put under Enjolras’ head.

“It’s not getting any better?” Courfeyrac asks Combeferre, and Combeferre gives him a sharp look and shakes his head.

And then Enjolras is seizing, convulsing violently on the floor. Courfeyrac’s face screws into a sad, concerned mess, and he simply keeps a hand on Enjolras. Combeferre’s eyes dart from his wristwatch to Enjolras and back again. All Grantaire can do is stand in the corridor and watch.

It’s over within a couple of minutes. Enjolras stops convulsing and lays limp and unconscious on the floor. Combeferre pulls out his datapad and types in a few notes, checks his watch again, and types in some more, as Courfeyrac moves Enjolras’ limbs – his leg bent out in front of him, his arms at right angles and hand under his cheek. Clearly they have done this before.

Combeferre sighs, pulls off his glasses, and rubs his hand along the side of his face. Courfeyrac stands and turns to Grantaire. “You are not to speak to anyone about this,” he says in a low, firm tone Grantaire has never heard before. “That is an order.”

“You can’t give me an order--”

“I can, and I just did. I am First under Enjolras and as long as you’re on this ship you _will_ take orders. Not a word, Grantaire. Not to Jehan, not to anyone else. Do you understand?”

That tiny flat on that shitty moon is starting to look like a much better option right about now.

“Yeah. Not a word.”


	4. Decrux

When he wakes up, Enjolras tastes blood.

“What happened?”

Combeferre is at his side. It’s such a usual occurrence he doesn’t even wonder anymore if the man will be there when he wakes up – he always is. “You had a seizure.”

“I bit my tongue.”

“Yes.”

Enjolras closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. His head is pounding worse than it usually does. “What happened?” he asks Combeferre, who smiles, but there’s no happiness in it.

“You had a seizure,” he repeats. “You bit your tongue.”

Enjolras nods then. There are tears in his eyes, though he doesn’t know why. Combeferre grasps one of his hands, and helps Enjolras to sit up.

“Did I have a seizure?”

“Yes.”

Combeferre brings him a glass of water. They are in Enjolras’ quarters. They sit in silence for several moments, Enjolras taking small sips of the water, enjoying how cool it feels on his tongue. “Grantaire saw,” Combeferre mentions as he takes Enjolras wrist and feels for his pulse.

“Saw what?”

“He saw you have a seizure.”

Enjolras blinks, then shakes his head a bit. It’s beginning to come back to him. “Right, sorry. I know. I just get…” The word is on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t know it.

“Forgetful,” Combeferre finishes gently. “It’s fine, Enjolras. He’s under ordered silence from Courfeyrac about the whole thing.”

Combeferre takes his vitals, examines him for a short while, types in some notes onto his datapad. “From now on I don’t think you should be alone for any long length of time.”

Enjolras wants to protest, but Combeferre is smart (smarter than he is, he knows). He nods slowly. “If you think that’s best.”

“I do. And you need to tell the crew.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Enjolras—“

“No, Combeferre.” The words come out much harsher than he intends for them to. The look Combeferre gives him is a mix of surprise and hurt, and Enjolras shuts his eyes and inhales deeply. “No. Not yet.”

Combeferre sits down on the end of the bunk, and Enjolras pulls his knees up closer to himself to give him more room. He stares Enjolras down for several seconds, then sets his jaw. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you’ve been ill for half a year. Your symptoms are getting worse. You’re seizing several times per week, and that on top of the headaches, coughing up blood, fainting spells—you don’t have very much time left.”

“Which is exactly why I need focus for the rest of the time I do have. I can’t have the crew treating me any different. We have work to do.”

“What happens the next time you begin to seize and Courfeyrac or I aren’t there? Whoever you’re with doesn’t know to put you on your side and you vomit and choke. What then?”

Enjolras wants to stand up, storm angrily out of the room, but he lacks the strength. Instead he breaks his eye contact with Combeferre, and stares down at the blanket covering his legs.

“Let me die with my dignity intact, Combeferre. Please.”

Combeferre regards him for a few moments of silence. Then he stands and takes the empty glass of water from where Enjolras had left it on the mattress. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

He leaves the room, and being Combeferre, he’s above slamming the door in anger. Enjolras is left alone in his quarters. He takes a deep breath and lays back onto his bunk, staring at the ceiling.

When Enjolras was a child his father painted constellations onto the ceiling of his bedroom, patterns of far-off stars that made pictures in the sky from the planet of his birth. He would sit on Enjolras' bed at night, pointing them out, giving their names – Electra, Mencalinan, Kornephoros, Epsilon Leonis. Each of them had planets and moons orbiting them, each of them sustained life – people, plants, creatures he could never even begin to dream of. Enjolras would fall asleep staring up at those stars on his ceiling, his father's calm voice telling him stories of an infinite number of worlds beyond his own.

There is no comfort now as he lies in bed, no calm voice at his side, no assurance he will not be alone when night comes. Just the creak of the ship's metal skeleton, the ever-present hum of the engines, and the cold, infinite expanse of space outside.

 

 

Grantaire drops his spent cigarette on the floor and smashes it, twisting his boot to drive the burning cherry to ashes. “Just let me know when you need me to to my thing, Jehan.”

Jehan looks up at the doorway out of the engine room, Grantaire just out of his view. He frowned at the tone of Grantaire's voice, bored, or possibly irritated. "I politely remind you that you could have declined, Grantaire.”

Grantaire cares a great deal for Jehan. They have been an inseparable pair since their teenage years, two kids from the bad part of a large-ish city on a near-central planet, couriering messages and picking pockets and mugging to stay alive.

It hadn't been his decision to join up with Enjolras and his crew. It was Jehan's, and it was a lucky twist of fate, a hurried decision - bags packed, credits paid into Courfeyrac's hand, and within an hour Grantaire watched their planet grow smaller and smaller behind them until it was no longer visible, never to be returned to again.

He could have stayed. He could have lived out his life there, worked to make a wage and a living, honestly or no. He could have declined, told Jehan the decision was being made too quickly, that he needed time to think it over, that he couldn't just uproot his life on a moment's notice to chase adventure and an uncertain future with a group of complete strangers.

But he didn't. The truth is that Grantaire will never leave Jehan, no matter the risk to himself. Before and now and always, it just isn't an option.

With a sigh he turns and enters the engine room. “And let you have all of the adventures? Unacceptable.”

A light pink flush creeps up Jehan's cheeks. “Untangle these for me, will you? Please and thanks.”

Grantaire picks up a mess of cables from the grated floor and begins to put them right. Jehan sits cross-legged on the floor some feet away, practically drowning in one of Bahorel's old sweaters, his thumbs poking through holes in the cuffs. Grantaire had forgotten how cold space was, the chill as you drift through the empty black in a mess of metal. Their shitty flat on that shitty moon was at least warmer. Cozy, rather. Or stifling. Claustrophobic, in a way that narrow corridors and cramped bunks could never feel like, not when you're a tiny speck drifting through the immense sea that is the universe.

A wisp of hair falls into Jehan's face, and he blows it out of the way, only for it to fall back down and rest just over his cheekbone. “Hand me that roll of solder?”

Grantaire does as he's asked. He loves watching Jehan in his element, his deft fingers performing intricate work soldering tiny wires to a circuit board. Grantaire twists the cables in his hands into (fairly) neat rolls and watches the tip of the soldering iron melt the metal and pull away clean, the cable in circuits immediately joined together.

With a satisfied hum Jehan sets the iron down and surveys his work. “It's not perfect, but it'll do. The technology for what you do is pretty forgiving, you know.” He sets the circuit board down next to the iron and stands to stretch his stiff muscles, popping the joints of his wrists and cracking his neck.

Grantaire sill holds the cables in his hands. “Where do you want me to...?”

“Oh, on the table is fine, my apologies.” Jehan glances over to a small black case under the table Grantaire sets the rolls of cable on. “Do you want to see it, Grantaire?”

An eyebrow raises, a blink, a moment of quiet between the two men. “See what?”

A flash of a grin darts across Jehan's face, a look in his eyes Grantaire can't quite place. “Bring me that case there.”

Once again Grantaire does as Jehan asks. The case is black metal, study, heavy, cold to the touch. He hands it off to Jehan, realizing what it must be just before the other man opens it slowly.

Nestled in black foam padding is a large needle nearly three millimeters in diameter and a third of a meter long, with thick cables attached to its base. The light of the engine room reflects off of the polished metal rod, the razor-sharp Whitacre tip winking up at Grantaire.

Slowly, his hand shaking ever so slightly, Grantaire reaches into the case to take the needle from its resting place. Jehan watches him, biting the inside of his lip and trying not to look too excited.

“It's brand new. Well, it's never been used before. I don't know when they had it made...I left my schematics and blueprints. Copies of them, I mean. Enjolras asked before we disembarked.”

Enjolras knew he would come back. The instrument was custom-made, secretly commissioned, expensive. He had to have known that Grantaire wouldn't ground himself forever. He would be too easily seduced by the infinite black, the thrill of exploring places he never knew existed, flying faster than he could imagine through the stars, never needing to set foot on dirt or grass or earth as long as he pleased. Enjolras is smart. Of course he knew.

Turning the needle straight up, Grantaire inspects the point, the tapered edge that Jehan would pierce through his skin and into his spinal cord, feeding electric pulses and signals into his brain and sending his own signals into the computer to make him one with the ship. He feels as if it should frighten him, considering the fact that the last time he plugged in he nearly died, but it doesn't. His fingertips tingle, a strange rush of exhilaration hitting him in the gut. Grantaire takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly before placing the needle back into the case.

“When do we start?”

Jehan's lips curl into a grin. He closes the case and puts his hand on Grantaire's shoulder, squeezing gently.

“Tonight.”


	5. Electra

“This is so fucked up.”

Grantaire sits in the pilot’s chair in the cockpit, shirt removed, his right leg rapidly bouncing as he chews his lip. Jehan is sticking circular electrodes on his chest, one already on each arm and leg. He attaches wires to each electrode, rolling his eyes.

“Telemetry is important, Grantaire.”

“No, not the telemetry, _fuck_ , Jehan. The audience.”

Jehan glances back towards the door. Enjolras leans against the wall, Combeferre examines a defibrillator, and the entirety of the rest of the crew peers in from the hallway, curious to see the procedure.

“Oh. Well, ignore them. They’re here for support.”

Courfeyrac huffs out a laugh. “And to see how badly this is going to go. I mean, if the ship loses power because of this and life support goes out and we all suffocate and freeze, I’d at least like some entertainment on my way out.”

Enjolras throws him a glare, and Courfeyrac shrugs. Grantaire shuts his eyes and takes in a long, deep breath, letting the cool air of the cockpit calm him as much as it can. When it’s just him and Jehan running experiments and testing the equipment and dicking around with technology he never worries, never falters or hesitates. But here, with seven others besides Jehan watching and scrutinizing, he can’t help but feel nervous.

Grantaire had nearly forgotten the eerie feeling of the calm before the storm, the blank headspace he needs to get into in order to pull this off. He trusts Jehan with his life, completely and one hundred percent; he knows he’ll do his job to the extent of his abilities. But even though this is just a test, a quick run-through, a technical rehearsal, his heart beats rapidly in his chest.

Jehan goes to the small computer the electrodes are hooked up to and types in a few things, frowning at the screen. “You need to calm down, Grantaire. I can’t get an accurate reading if you’re stressed.”

“Calm down? Really? Really, Jehan. Calm down.”

Jehan gives him a pointed look, and Grantaire closes his eyes again. “Fine. I’m calm. I’m serene. I’m completely at peace.”

“If you’re not going to take this seriously, Grantaire, then what’s the point?” Enjolras stands up straight, his arms crossed over his chest. “You don’t understand how important this is.”

Grantaire grits his teeth and opens his eyes. “Of course I don’t understand. Nobody on this whole goddamn ship will tell us what the hell is going on and why you need me to do this, why you picked us up after no word for two years and gave us illegal papers to book public transpo to get to your stolen ship and do this, this thing that almost _killed_ me. So no, Enjolras, I don’t understand, and you can kindly fuck off.”

“Grantaire…”

Enjolras looks as if he’s about to give Grantaire a long-winded lecture, but instead he just shrugs. “It’s fine, Jehan. He’s right. You’ll both be fully informed of the situation, assuming the technology works and you’re able to…” He makes a vague hand gesture. “…do your thing.”

Grantaire gives him a sarcastic thumbs up. He relaxes a bit in the pilot’s seat, closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths to release the tension in his shoulders, listening to the gentle hum of the engines.

Why is engine noise so comforting? What is it about the steady static rumble that brings him such peace? He doesn’t know.

The plan is uncomplicated and relatively easy – the ship is at standby, floating freely in the middle of nowhere. Grantaire is to plug in and steer about for a bit while Jehan monitors his condition and makes sure everything goes smoothly. He’ll unplug Grantaire, they’ll assess the situation, and proceed from there.

With a calming sigh Jehan stands and looks down at Grantaire. “Everything’s set on my end. Are you ready, Grantaire?”

Grantaire takes a deep breath, his eyes still closed. No time like the present. “Yeah. Do it.”

He doesn’t open his eyes to watch Jehan take out the needle from its case, doesn’t see him plug it into the computers in the cockpit. He simply winces as he feels the chill of an alcohol wipe on the back of his neck. Seconds later, the needle pierces his skin.

It’s an odd feeling, such a long, thick, sharp piece of metal passing through his cervical vertebrae and driving down deep into his spinal cord. He only feels it for a few moments until his eyes roll back into his head and

there is a burst of light, a flash brighter than a supernova and colors he’s never seen before, never imagined, impossible colors and light. he is flying white hot and straight ahead and there is no way to stop, no way to turn back or slow down. confusion, deep fear, and then he is the ship. she digs into his every nerve, pain exploding throughout his body, intense white-hot pain that consumes him, becomes him. encrypted code runs throughout him like a second circulatory system. he can feel every part of the ship, every beam, ever sheet of metal, every single bolt and screw and coupling that make her what she is. and he understands. he moves along with her, thrusts her forward slowly, and then faster, testing his strength, stretching his wings. elation. exaltation. the feeling of a thousand things happening all at once and then suddenly

coming to a stop. Grantaire takes in a deep, long breath, gasping for air. There is a clatter of metal on metal, something dropped hastily, and there are people in front of him, voices. Someone is shouting, shouting at him? The voice is muffled, or perhaps they are under water. His limbs are heavy, dead weight, and someone is pushing something sharp into the crook of his elbow, and it stings. His eyes can’t focus, his lids flutter and something is wet on his upper lip, wet and hot.

Jehan wipes the blood from underneath Grantaire’s nose and takes his face in both hands, turning him so their noses are aligned, faces just inches apart. He stares into his eyes and swallows. “Grantaire? Can you hear me? Grantaire, blink if you can understand me.”

He can’t feel his eyelids. He can’t feel anything. He wants to blink, he truly does; he hears Jehan’s words and understands him and he wants to tell him that, but he can’t. Instead he watches Jehan’s eyes go wide before Combeferre gently pushes him aside and shines a light into one of Grantaire’s eyes. He looks away, bothered by the light.

“Grantaire.” Grantaire’s eyes snap back to Combeferre. His voice is smooth, low, sunset and coffee. “Grantaire, I’ve given you a sedative and some medication to slow your heart down. You’re going to fall asleep. Don’t fight it, just let it happen.”

He wasn’t worried before, but he is now. Combeferre’s eyes are intense, determined, but there’s a hint of panic there, a twinge of fear Grantaire had never seen before. And there, in front of Jehan’s computers and wires and instruments…

Enjolras stands, helpless. Behind him, out the cockpit window, thousands upon thousands of stars burn dim compared to Enjolras’ radiance. Grantaire stares at him, unable to take his eyes away. He’s brighter than the brightest light, that flash, the supernova. He watches him until his eyelids become far too heavy, and he sleeps.

 

 

“Is he…Ferre—“

Combeferre places two fingers in the hollow of Grantaire’s neck, just under his jaw, and glances down at his watch. “He’s fine. He will be.” He furrows his brow, does some quick math and sighs. “15 percent above maximum…Jehan, have you two done this since you left us?”

Jehan stares down at Grantaire, unconscious and slumped back in the pilot’s chair. He takes in a deep breath, and shakes his head. “No, not since the last time. He’s completely healthy, he hasn’t been using, he’s eating fine. No changes in his medical history. Maybe…maybe it was just a bit too much, too soon. But, he’ll be okay, right?”

“Yes, he will.” Even coming from Combeferre, who Jehan is sure has never told a lie in his life, the words still sound like “No, he will not.” Still, his face is gentle enough to believe. Jehan unplugs the cables from the needle and begins to coil them. The audience of spectators outside the cockpit had disappeared sometime between unplugging Grantaire and him falling asleep. Now, it was just the four of them.

“It worked.”

Enjolras had been silent up until now. He looks down at Grantaire as Jehan placed the cables into a metal case. “It’s dangerous, Enjolras. There’s no guarantee whatever you want to be done will actually get done. I know you, and I know you wouldn’t ask this of us if it wasn’t something you really believed was important enough to risk our lives.

"When he wakes up…you’re going to tell him everything.”

“What about you? Don’t you want to know?” Enjolras raises an eyebrow. He’d never heard Jehan so outspoken before.

With a click Jehan closes the metal case containing the long, terrible needle. “Of course I do. But it’s not me who has to endure all this pain for you. He deserves to know first.” Jehan gathers the rest of his things and leaves the cockpit without another word.

Little lights blink on the navigation console, an occasional beep sounds. Combeferre takes Grantaire’s pulse again, finally satisfied at the result. “It’s cruel, you know.”

“What is?”

“Asking this of Grantaire. You know he won’t deny you.”

Enjolras’s brow furrows. “I’m not taking advantage of him—“

“You absolutely are, and you know it. I don’t agree with it, and I’m telling you that now so it doesn’t surprise you down the road if our plans come to fruition.”

“ _When_ they come to fruition.”

Combeferre looks up at Enjolras, harsh words already formed on his lips, but his face changes immediately. He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and steps over to enjolras to press it gently under his nose.

“You’re bleeding.”

Enjolras holds the handkerchief there, suddenly aware of the dull ache in his head. “Can you…can you take care of him? I’m…I need to lie down.”

There’s a nod, and a sympathetic look that Enjolras wishes he didn’t see, and some words he doesn’t quite catch. Enjolras leaves the cockpit in pain, stars bursting in front of his eyes.

Everything has to happen as planned. It must. It _will_.


End file.
